As Father's Day approaches, we anticipate our annual Precepts Retreat and the sixth annual conference of the Silent Thunder Order (STO) July 16th, 2016. Beginning with Wednesday the 13th arrival and orientation, you are invited to attend the retreat, for any part or all of it (our way of celebrating the one and the many). This time of year we remember our fathers, probably because Mother's Day was invented first, and then someone said, Oh yeah, maybe we should have one for fathers, too.

I have been fortunate to have what I would call strong relationships with both my biological father, and that person whom we in Zen often refer to as our "dharma father," our root teacher. Of course, we have many teachers in Zen, just as we have many mentors in our lives, some of whom function as father figures to us, in various ways.

Then, as our lives move on, we find ourselves in similar relationships to younger people, including our own children. Buddha is said to have come to regard all people as his children, and not in some condescending manner.

The problem with being a father is that it usually begins at too young an age for us to have the wisdom that we gain in hindsight. And with young children, some of the damage done by failed relationships is not recoverable, much like data files on a crashed hard drive. We cannot necessarily fix everything that has been broken, and time does not heal all wounds. Relationships, especially biological ones, are exceedingly complex. Frankly, I have not had the kind of relationships I would prefer, to my own biological children, a son and daughter from my first marriage. But they are better now than they once were, and improving.
Read more: What is a Father - July Dharma Byte

Please pardon my indulging in a discourse, some might say a rant, on the precision of language. Or, rather, the presumptions we make in regard to verbal concepts we use every day. And the potential light that closer examination may shed upon your Zen perspective.

It occurs to me that language itself holds clues to Buddhist truths, especially those usages that go largely unexamined, standing as cultural memes, customs, or precepts, so to speak. That we speak of such inherited notions as a "manner of speaking," as does Buddha, in explaining his teaching, betrays the fact that we intuitively regard attempts to reduce reality to words as inherently futile, if not entirely fatuous.

This intuition—not to dignify it as insight—has come to me often, most recently while "making the bed," specifically a single sized guest bed, originally our granddaughter's. The cover sheet is a flower print, matching the rest of the bedding set, one side being the "front," the other side being, well, the "back." When spreading it over the fitted sheet, ordinarily one would make sure that the front side (with the best rendering of the print) would face down, so that when one turns back the cover to welcome a guest, or oneself, into the warm embrace of the bed sheets, the "good" side would be revealed.
Read more: Do You Mind? It Doesn't Matter

The dictionary defines intelligence as "the ability to acquire and apply knowledge and skills." I have also heard it defined, in an even more stripped-down version, as "the ability to learn." Without going into the overwhelming research on the subject, or its controversial political sideshow—resistance to dumbing us down to the level of our primate cousins—let us consider what the role of intelligence might mean, in Zen. We learn, from Master Dogen, that insight in Zen has little or nothing to do with conventional intelligence; but that "human faculties may be sharp or dull," from the Harmony of Difference and Equality (J. Sandokai).

If we take the latter, simpler definition, we can expand the meaning of intelligence to include so-called "lower" animals, obviously. But with a little more liberal attitude, may even countenance the behavior of a tree, as exhibiting the ability to learn. That is, a root grows through the soil, and encounters a blockage, such as a stone, or another root. The tree does not keep pushing against the stone, like a human being, beating her or his head against the wall. Instead, it follows the route of least resistance, by going around the impediment. You might argue that there is no recognition, by the tree, of what is occurring, that indeed, it does continue pushing, but that it is the yielding of the relatively softer soil, that enables its change of direction. And, of course, you would be correct, insofar as that analysis goes. We do not attribute intent to a tree, after all, let alone the stone.